


Christmas in Sussex

by belovedmuerto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, M/M, empath!John, fluffy christmas fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 01:23:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1100771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock surprises John with a trip to the cottage for Christmas. Much fluffiness ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas in Sussex

**Author's Note:**

> I've been calling this one the "fluffy empath christmas fluff" in my head since I conceived of it, and you should take heed of that. There is A LOT of fluff herein. Enjoy!
> 
> Thanks to Castiron for taking a quick gander yesterday before I finished and pronouncing that all it needed was opening of presents and some closing contentment. I hope I delivered on those.
> 
> And you, dear reader, if you celebrate anything around this time of year, I hope it's good and that you get to spend it with people you care about.

Mrs Hudson is going to stay with her niece for the Christmas hols. 

She mentions it in passing to Sherlock one afternoon at the very beginning of December, and he starts planning _immediately_ , asking her not to mention it to John for a while. She twinkles at him and asks what he’s up to, and Sherlock admits, perhaps shyly, that he’d like to surprise John, if she won’t be around for them to celebrate with. She thinks it’s a lovely idea and agrees immediately. 

He may be oblivious to the social niceties the vast majority of the time, and that is almost entirely on purpose, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t occasionally know when to do something spontaneous and nice for someone he cares about. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t _want to_ , when it comes to John. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to have a quiet, relaxed Christmas with his John. 

The best place he knows to do that, to have a relaxed and quiet Christmas with the person he cares most about, is Sussex.

It’s been a few months since John recovered his empathy, and things are still a bit rough around the edges. A bit of a holiday might be just the thing to help smooth those edges out, help him get a better hold on things. John had insisted they not run off to Sussex when his empathy first came back; he’d wanted to get reacclimated to London immediately. He’d felt that the only way to get used to things again was to actually be around to feel them. He’d spent a painstaking few weeks rebuilding his walls, with Sherlock unable to do much more than stand beside him and try to radiate calm. He’s not sure how well it worked, because John still ends just about every day with a pinched look around his eyes and tired, pained sighs. 

Thankfully, things aren’t particularly rough between them--they’d had their talk, Sherlock had told John what was bothering him, and John has been making visible effort to improve. It’s been good. Sherlock is unutterably glad that things are good; just how good they are feels more and more like it’s in direct disproportion to how bad they were when John was unwell. It’s like they’re making up for all that lost time, closer than ever.

No, it’s everything else that’s been rough. Ever since his empathy came back, John’s been a bit more sensitive. Everything seems to prick at him a little more than it used to. The emotions of others seem to stick in his head a little more than they used to. Not so much as to be noticeable on a daily basis, but over time they accumulate, and of course Sherlock has noticed. He always notices. Especially when those things involve John.

\----

“Sherlock?”

He listens to John’s footsteps on the stairs, and sighs a little. _Long day, vaguely annoyed in general, but not a bad shift overall._ He can hear it as much in the way John climbs the steps as he can feel it in his head. 

John comes into the flat and looks around quickly, surveying, as always, for possible damage before shrugging out of his coat and hanging it up. 

“Did you do anything today?” he asks as he heads into the kitchen.

“This and that,” Sherlock allows. 

Called his brother. ( _Ugh._ ) Called the caretakers at the big house in Sussex and asked them to open up the cottage and possibly acquire a tree. ( _Ugh._ ) Rerouted several packages of his own and John’s so that they would be waiting for them when they get to the cottage. ( _Dull, but necessary._ ) (He even managed not to deduce what John had purchased for him. He’s been working hard not to deduce them. He enjoys the way John feels when Sherlock lets himself be surprised.) Spoke to the caretakers several more times. Spoke to the caterer. Conceded to the housekeeper’s insistence that the cottage be decorated with fresh greens in addition to the fairy lights he’d requested. (Perhaps not entirely begrudgingly.) Found John’s main gift. (Hopeful.) Ordered groceries to be delivered to the cottage shortly after their arrival. (Necessary, if they wish to eat. Which John, at least, will.) Booked train tickets. Got out their bags so John will be able to pack tonight. Arranged for a car from the train station, once they get to town. Tidied up his current experiments so that the flat won’t burn down while they’re away. Texted Lestrade to let him know not to call for a bit (‘Sherlock, I’m on vacation until after New Year. Don’t bother me.’ ‘Lestrade, please do not make me think of your relationship with my brother. -SH’ ‘I will tell you what I’m going to do to him for Christmas if you don’t leave me be.’ Sherlock had allowed Lestrade the last word. His imagination is vivid enough.)

He’d even managed to eat some cereal around midday. It had been an exhausting day.

“Did you eat anything today?”

“Tedious.”

John sticks his head out of the kitchen and raises one brow at Sherlock where he’s stretched out on the sofa in his normal lounging attire of pyjama bottoms, ratty t-shirt and dressing gown. 

“Is that a yes?”

Sherlock manages to keep the smile off his face only by scowling, but he doesn’t stifle the amusement he feels or the way it colors his voice when he speaks. “Yes, John.”

“Want anything for dinner?”

“Not really.”

“All right. I think I’ll just order a takeaway. Do you object to Indian tonight?”

“Chinese would be better.”

“All right.”

John doesn’t argue with Sherlock dictating his meal choices even when he says he’s not going to eat. It’s one of those unspoken things between them. Sherlock will express his preference and adamantly maintain he won’t be eating, John will order more than he’ll eat on his own, and Sherlock will budge up on the sofa and lean against John, picking at his food over his shoulder while they watch telly for a bit. They’ll both go to bed sated and warm and comfortable.

\----

“Have you seen Mrs H today, Sherlock?” John asks around a mouthful of noodles.

“No, John, she’s been gone for several days now.”

“Gone where?”

Sherlock gives him a smug look. “She went to her niece’s for the holiday.”

“Were you going to tell me?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Now you know.”

“I was going to invite her for Christmas dinner!”

“We have other plans, John.” Sherlock can’t help the smile that’s starting to creep across his face.

“We do? Since when?”

“Since Mrs Hudson told me she was going to her niece’s for Christmas.”

“Were you going to tell me?” John is at once overwhelmingly fond and entirely exasperated.

“I’m telling you now. You should probably pack soon, our train is early tomorrow.”

“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing?” 

Sherlock cocks his head to the side, looking steadily at John. _Think,_ he thinks. _You don’t need me to tell you._

“Ah,” John says, after a moment, as realization dawns. “We’re going to Sussex, aren’t we?”

Sherlock just smiles in reply.

“Did you at least get out our bags?”

Sherlock smiles again. “Yes, John.”

“Is the heat going to be on when we get there?” John sounds vaguely afraid, like Sherlock would let them arrive to a freezing cold cottage.

“Yes, John.”

“All right. I’ll go pack after I’ve finished eating. Any requests? Since I know you won’t do your own packing, you giant child.”

“Something comfortable. And warm, I suppose.” He doesn’t even bother denying John’s claim. Sherlock is pretty sure he’s done enough work so far today; John will see when they get there. 

\----

“I should probably be angry with you,” John mumbles into his pillow when Sherlock crawls into bed next to him.

“You aren’t, though,” Sherlock murmurs back. He snuggles under the covers, inching across the bed towards John. 

John shifts onto his side so Sherlock can scoot back against him, pressing them together. He rubs his cold feet against John’s shins. John grumbles half-heartedly but doesn’t move away; instead he drapes an arm over Sherlock and pulls him closer. 

“No,” he agrees after a while. “I’m not.”

“Because you love me,” Sherlock whispers.

“Because I do,” John agrees.

They fall asleep wrapped around each other, comfortable and warm in their bed.

\----

Sherlock doesn’t remember the train ride down to Sussex, because he falls asleep almost as soon as it starts moving, just like he always does. Something about trains just sends him straight to sleep. It’s one of the reasons he rarely takes the Tube. The last time he tried, he ended up an hour out of his way.

He wakes to John gently shaking him. 

“We’re here,” he says, voice soft and fond. The waves of affection coming from him are soothing and happy. Sherlock has a moment of wanting to roll around in them, stretching and arching.

John smiles down at him. “None of that til we get to the cottage, yeah?”

Sherlock gives him what must be a sleepy grin. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“And I think I’ll take you to pieces.”

“Good.”

\----

Sherlock loves the way coming to the cottage makes John feel. He stands by the car watching as John heads for the house, and follows after slowly, carrying their bags. 

John is stood just inside the door, mouth hanging open just a bit as he looks around, taking in the decor, the tree, the logs waiting to be lit in the fireplace. Sherlock stops just behind him and puts the bags down, shuts the door and then steps a bit closer, so they’re brushing together down the line of John’s back. John leans back into him a little bit, and then turns around, slipping his arms around Sherlock’s waist.

“You did this,” he says. “For me.”

Sherlock nods. “Well, I made a few phone calls.”

John chuckles and snuggles in a bit, dropping his forehead against Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock puts his arms around John and holds on. He can practically feel John’s smile against his chest, right next to his heart. 

“Come on,” he says after a few moments. “I’ll get the fire started.”

John nods, and after another moment lets go of Sherlock. He grabs their bags. “I’ll take these upstairs. Tea?”

“Sure.”

Sherlock is still getting the fire going to his liking when he hears John come back down the stairs. He listens to John go into the kitchen and rustle through the cupboards and the fridge, and presumably fill up and turn on the kettle. John will make tea and they will sit on the sofa for a while, enjoying the fire. They will sit, and they will relax, and they won’t do anything but relax for the whole holiday.

Sherlock knows he should be worried about that, worried that he’ll be bored. But he’s never yet been bored here in this cottage with John. There’s always something to do, something to read or an experiment to think about or perform or write up. There are walks to be taken, or sex to be had, or naps or films or any number of other things.

He’s not sure what it is about coming here, but it slows him down, and he doesn’t hate it.

\----

John is sprawled on the sofa, legs stretched towards the hearth when Sherlock rises from his crouch by the fireplace, finally satisfied that the fire is properly roaring and will stay that way for a sufficient amount of time for them to really enjoy it. And possibly even long enough for John to take Sherlock to pieces as promised.

He takes the mug of tea that John holds out to him and sits next to him, cuddling close and leaning against him. John throws an arm around his shoulders and sighs, entirely content, radiating contentment, glowing with it. 

They drink their tea in silence, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the warmth of each other. Time slows to a pleasant meander while the fire crackles merrily in the hearth.

“There’s no food,” John says eventually. He sounds half-asleep, torpid. “We have to go to the shops.”

“It should be here in another hour or so,” Sherlock replies.

“What should?”

“The caterer, with the food.”

“Oh. You really thought of everything, didn’t you?”

“John,” he sounds just chastising enough to make John grin at him. In response, he leans over and presses a kiss to John’s smiling lips, tasting his happiness, his contentedness. They are sweet on his tongue, and John kisses him back. They go on like that, kissing slowly, softly, tenderly for what could be a few minutes or a few hours.

At some point, it becomes not enough, and Sherlock shifts, to deepen the kiss. John’s moan only encourages him, and he twists and moves until he’s straddling John, knees to either side of his hips on the sofa, slipping his fingers through John’s hair and moaning into his mouth.

John’s hands go around his hips, sliding up and down his back, and then his torso, up his neck and into his hair, shifting Sherlock’s head to a slightly different angle and deepening the kiss further.

Sherlock can’t help the moans slipping from him into John; he can feel them burrowing into John’s chest, lodging there and swelling. He swallows each of John’s moans in return as things get more heated. He only breaks away when breathing becomes a serious issue, pressing his forehead to John’s and looking down the line of both their bodies, where each of them is straining against his trousers. 

John does likewise, and Sherlock gasps and then moans when his delightful fingers alight along the line of Sherlock’s cock. He watches, shuddering, as John drags his nails along his length, and moans brokenly when John reaches that sensitive spot just below the head. John just chuckles at him and then kisses him again, fingers still moving.

John keeps kissing him until Sherlock has pretty much lost the ability to kiss, lost the ability to do anything but hang on and pant. Only then does he take his hands away, grabbing Sherlock by the hips and guiding him over onto his back on the sofa. 

Sherlock groans again, words all but gone, when John presses down against him. He noses along Sherlock’s neck, sucking a bruise into the skin at the junction between his neck and his collarbone. Sherlock arches beneath his mouth, pressing his head back into the sofa cushions, arching his body beneath John’s, unable to stop the thrusting of his hips against John’s, feeling John’s answering hardness against his own.

“John,” he manages, the name a long, drawn-out, breathless plea.

And John takes pity on him. Before Sherlock’s able to summon thought, John has slipped down the sofa, undone the fly of his trousers, and sucked him down, taking him deep and hollowing his cheeks, swallowing around the head of Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock scrabbles at the sofa cushions, trying to find something to hold on to, moaning ceaselessly. He can feel what John’s feeling, he can feel how the way he feels makes John feel, and it’s overwhelming, the pleasure of it rocketing back and forth between them. He knows, somewhere where he’ll be able to see it when he looks back, that his moans turn John on, that the way he’s falling apart beneath John’s mouth and hands are driving John insane with arousal.

John looks up at him, along the line of his body; they’re both still mostly clothed, and something about that makes Sherlock feel decadent, debauched. John pulls back a bit, changing tacks, grabs Sherlock’s hands and puts them on his head. He pulls off with an audible, filthy pop and says, “Hold on.”

Sherlock does.

He almost manages more than a near-sob of “John” before he comes, tugging on John’s hair, but John resists him and hollows his cheeks again, swallowing as Sherlock comes.

Everything goes white around the edges, swamped by pleasure and _John_ , and Sherlock floats for a while before he’s able to open his eyes. John is still between his legs, head resting on his hip.

“John, come here,” he murmurs.

“Mmmm,” John replies. He’s rutting gently against Sherlock’s calf.

Sherlock manages to sit up. “Up, up,” he instructs.

John looks up at him, eyes glazed, pupils dilated. “What?”

Sherlock manhandles him up and over onto his back. John looks at him with wide eyes, affectionate and aroused. Sherlock pushes into him, all the pleasure that John had given him flowing along the connection between them, and John arches, moaning. While he’s gasping from that, Sherlock undoes his fly, and when John lifts his head again, he sees the grin on Sherlock’s face just before he slips John’s cock from the confines of his pants and gives as good as he got, pushing all the while, always pushing, driving John to the edge and over in what feels like bare moments.

\----

“Should we do some baking?” John asks, later, when they’re tangled together, still on the sofa. Sherlock has his head on John’s stomach, and John’s hands are in his hair, combing through it, playing with it. 

Sherlock is practically asleep, he’s so relaxed. Between the orgasm and John’s hands in his hair, he’s amazed he’s capable of speech when he answers.

“I’m fairly certain I ordered the things to make biscuits. And mince pies.”

“You’re going to make us both gain a lot of weight over this holiday.”

“Probably.”

“Are you going to eat like a normal person?” John sounds mock-astonished, but Sherlock can feel that there is curiosity behind it, he can feel that John really wants to know.

“Happy Christmas, John.”

John chuckles, then, “Wait, are you telling me that you eating is my Christmas present?”

Sherlock giggles, turning his head into John’s stomach to stifle it. “Yes.”

John holds on to his head and laughs. Sherlock wallows in the feeling of it. They’re still recovering from the laughter when there’s a knock on the door. Sherlock looks up at John.

“That’ll be the groceries.”

John nods and starts to move.

“No, I’ll get it, John. Stay.” Sherlock stands. He rebuttons his trousers and adjusts his shirt, neither of which really does much to lessen how shagged out he looks, and goes to answer the door. 

When he returns a bit later, John is still stretched out on the sofa. His trousers are refastened, but he hasn’t moved otherwise. Sherlock takes that as invitation and stretches himself out along John again, head back on his stomach, and John’s hands immediately go back into his hair. 

“Did you put the food away?”

“The delivery person did, mostly. The things that needed to be put away, anyway.”

“Okay. Are we getting up?”

“Not yet, John.” Sherlock nudges up into his hands, and John takes the hint, combing through his hair again.

They stay like that for a long time.

\----

Sherlock bakes a quick batch of biscuits while John puts together dinner, late that afternoon. They move around each other in the kitchen with practised ease, though Sherlock is rarely using the kitchen for its intended purpose when John is cooking. Usually he’s doing things that always seem to make dinner almost inedible, or make the flat uninhabitable for a while. 

Curiously, he always takes John out for dinner when he’s through.

After eating, and gorging on biscuits for pudding, they settle back in the lounge for a while, leaning against each other on the sofa. John starts on the medical mystery novel he’s brought with him, and Sherlock peruses some of John’s medical journals.

“You call that light reading?” John asks.

“You’re the one who packed them for me, John.”

“I packed them for _me_ , Sherlock. I am expected to keep up with that sort of thing, being a doctor and all.”

“Oh, nonsense. You packed them for me and you know it.” Sherlock doesn’t lift his eyes from the case study he’s reading, but he can feel John grinning at him.

Eventually, John stands. “I’m going to go start a fire upstairs so we don’t freeze to death in our sleep.”

“We wouldn’t, John, there’s plenty of blankets on that bed.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t fancy it being ten degrees when I’m trying to sleep.”

\----

Sherlock wakes up slow the next morning, with John’s morning erection pressed into his arse. What follows is a pleasant way to start the first full day of their holiday at the cottage. Afterwards, they both doze for a bit, then get up and shower together--to save hot water, of course. 

Also because Sherlock doesn’t want to wait, and John refuses to let him go first. They dress afterwards in comfortable clothes; John had packed jeans for Sherlock, knowing that he only deigns to wear such casual clothes at the cottage. Jeans and the few jumpers he owns and his more relaxed oxford shirts.

John makes breakfast, and they eat together in the kitchen. Sherlock eats nearly as much as John does, and John doesn’t comment on it, though Sherlock can feel that he takes note of it. He’s content, for now, to let digestion slow his thought processes. For now.

He can feel John contemplating something, something that amuses him, that makes him feel fond and slightly exasperated (both common feelings when he’s thinking about Sherlock), and somewhat wistful.

“What are you thinking about?” Sherlock asks.

For a moment, he doesn’t think John is going to answer. But John has been working on this, on talking more, on being more open with Sherlock, and he does speak, after a moment.

“I was wondering if you’re going to eat like this more after you’re retired.”

Sherlock scowls a bit. He’s not ready to contemplate retirement. For a long time, he hadn’t thought retirement was a thing he’d have. An early grave, due to drugs or criminals or a combination of both, he’d figured.

But now it’s a very real possibility, if they don’t both go out in a blaze of glory beforehand.

“I was wondering,” John continues, “if you’d end up with an adorable little paunch.”

“John.” He can’t help the offended way his voice comes out. He has the metabolism of someone fifteen years younger than him, at least.

For now, anyway.

John grins at him, not offended at all. And why would he be, he’s the one saying he thinks Sherlock will get fat, not the other way ‘round. “I’d love it,” he says. “I’d have something to hang on to.”

“Oh my god.”

“You’d look dignified!”

“Stop, John.” He’s actively trying to hide his smile, now.

“You would, with grey streaks at your temples, and glasses, and a little belly. Surrounded by bees and flowers. It would be all I could do not to shag you blind every afternoon. Between naps.”

They both break into giggles. 

“And how are you going to look?” Sherlock asks after a bit.

“Oh, I’ll be round and grumpy and gray haired, I’m sure.”

“And upright and fond and all wrapped up your jumpers, I’m sure.”

John reaches across the table and kisses him soundly. “I hope so.”

\----

After breakfast, John goes for a walk. It’s cold outside, but there are plenty of provisions for such weather in the cottage, somehow. Sherlock doesn’t know where they came from, but there are gloves and hats and scarves. John had brought their parkas, though Sherlock doesn’t like to admit he even knows what a parka is, let alone that he owns one. 

He suspects that John has perhaps been secretly bringing things with them each time they come out here, putting them in closets for future usage. If that’s the truth, then he loves John all the more for it. John is the practical one, and Sherlock needs that.

While John walks, Sherlock works in the small room upstairs that had previously been used mostly for storage. He resists the siren call of the laboratory in the second bedroom admirably, he thinks. He does, however, keep an ear out for when John returns, as he doesn’t want to spoil John’s surprise.

He moves things around, shifting what little is kept in there for storage, most of it into the lab. It’s hard work, and by the time John returns, Sherlock finds himself hungry, again.

He really is apparently eating like a normal person on this trip.

\----

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock goes downstairs when he hears John’s voice. He’d left the small third bedroom when he heard John come in the house. 

“Are you making lunch?” he asks.

John is in the kitchen with his head stuck in the fridge, still wearing his parka. The scarf and hat he’d been wearing are hung over one of the chairs around the table, and the gloves are laid out on the counter. They all look wet, and Sherlock glances out the window to see that it’s snowing.

John notices him looking and smiles. “It started about half an hour ago. You didn’t notice, did you?”

“I was upstairs,” Sherlock replies. It’s not a lie; he doesn’t want to lie to John, he doesn’t like to lie to John. “I was--”

John smiles. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to say.” Then he sobers. “Sherlock, I don’t have most of your gifts here. They were being shipped to the flat.”

Sherlock smiles. “They’ll be arriving here, I had everything rerouted.”

“Sherlock.”

“What?”

“Your gifts are supposed to be a surprise, Sherlock. That’s part of the fun of opening gifts on Christmas morning.”

Sherlock snorts, just a little. “I didn’t look, John. I just had the post diverted. Promise.”

John gives him a suspicious look, but doesn’t comment further. “Do you want something to eat?”

“Yes, please.”

John gives him another suspicious look. “Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock?”

Sherlock resists the temptation to stick out his tongue at John; too juvenile. Instead, he fills the kettle and turns it on and leaves the kitchen. “I’ll start a fire in the lounge.”

\----

They spend the afternoon quietly, mostly sacked out on the sofa in front of the fire. They drink endless cups and tea. They only spend a little bit of it shagging. For a while, they cuddle together, watching a film on John’s laptop. 

Sherlock checks on his website and all the various news outlets he tries to keep up with--crime seems to be taking a holiday for Christmas as well. 

He doesn’t examine how content he feels out here in the middle of nowhere, away from the city he calls home, from the place that’s vital to his well-being. He doesn’t think about how maybe it’s not so much the city he needs to feel at home as it is John. Sherlock knows he could be happy here, living a quieter life, as long as John is with him. He would have his hobbies, as would John. He would keep bees, and write about them, and John would write, and help him keep the garden, and cook. They would both read a lot more for fun than they do now. It would be quiet and wonderful.

\----

There are only a few more days until Christmas. The things they’d ordered for each other start arriving by post, and John takes the things addressed to him upstairs and “hides” them. Sherlock makes sure to roll his eyes a lot, but he takes the things that arrive for John up to his lab and tuck them away out of sight.

After breakfast the next morning, they both bundle up in jumpers and scarves and hats and parkas and gloves and extra socks and go for a walk. The snow hadn’t lasted very long the other day, but enough of it stuck to make everything feel hushed and quiet and snow-covered.

They walk for hours, wandering on the Downs, enjoying each other’s company and the solitude and the quiet that snow leaves behind. 

Eventually they turn towards town, ending up having a meal in the pub and lingering for a while there to warm up. John teases Sherlock mercilessly about how much he’s been eating since they arrived in Sussex. Sherlock ignores him and steals food from John’s plate in retaliation. John defends with his fork, but Sherlock is wily and clever, and John doesn’t defend his plate overly hard; he’s far too used to letting Sherlock eat off his plate so that he’ll eat anything at all. They go into a few of the shops after they’ve eaten and warmed up and had a couple of pints between them, and maybe a scotch or two as well, picking up a few things here and there. Sherlock pretends not to notice what John has surreptitiously bought, and John does the same for him. 

They walk back as it’s growing dark that afternoon, chatting quietly.

“You’ve been really happy the past few days,” John says, slipping his hand into Sherlock’s.

“Well spotted,” Sherlock replies. But he squeezes John’s hand, and John squeezes back.

“You’re really enjoying this holiday, aren’t you?”

“I am.” 

John smiles. “I am, too.”

Sherlock smiles back. “I’m glad. I want you to enjoy it. I want you to have a good Christmas this year, John. And every year. I feel like perhaps we need that, this year more than most.”

John nods. “I know you want that, Sherlock. I want you to enjoy it too. And I think I agree with you about having a good Christmas. And I’m sure we will.”

“Is that enough sentiment for the time being, John?”

John chuckles. “That’s good for now, yeah.” 

Sherlock lets go of John’s hand only to tuck it under his arm, and they walk the rest of the way back to the cottage arm in arm, shoulders bumping together, gait slow as it never is in London. 

\----

It starts snowing when they’re just about back to the cottage. 

“Don’t get too comfortable,” John instructs as they enter through the kitchen door. He takes off his gloves and then tugs Sherlock’s gloves off his hands, both pairs are damp. Sherlock stands in the kitchen in his parka, confused, while John tromps out of the room. He listens as John goes out to the foyer, and then tromps upstairs, coming back down just a few minutes later.

He comes into the kitchen and hands Sherlock another pair of gloves--seriously, where did they all come from?--a blanket draped over his arm. “Let’s go.”

Sherlock wants to ask where, but he doesn’t. There’s something about the way John feels, content and excited and mischievous, that’s infectious. So he goes with it, following close behind John as he leaves the cottage again, heading through the garden and the further. 

Sherlock follows John all the way down to the bluff in the lightly falling snow. He hasn’t checked the weather recently, but he suspects this one is going to last longer, and leave more behind. They may have a white Christmas after all, something that would almost never happen in London.

When they get close to the edge, close enough to hear the distant roar of the ocean, John stops. He turns to Sherlock, gets close and closer, and then awkwardly wraps the blanket around both of them. Once Sherlock’s caught on, he helps, maneuvering closer to John and helping him arrange the blanket around both of them.

They stand wrapped around each other under the blanket for a long time, listening to each other breathe, the soft sound of snow falling and the waves far below them.

When their toes are too cold, they go back into the cottage. Sherlock builds a roaring fire and they climb into bed. John doesn’t even complain about Sherlock’s cold toes.

They discuss what to do for Christmas morning breakfast as they’re drifting off to sleep.

\----

Christmas eve is quiet, much like the rest of the holiday has been thus far. The snow hadn’t let up for the whole night, leaving behind nearly a foot. Sherlock doesn’t want to go out in it at all, but he relents at John’s excitement, and ends up in a snowball fight for his trouble. 

John has killer aim with more than just a gun. 

They warm each other up afterwards, and then take a lazy nap. After that and showers, and getting dressed and eating again, they part ways for a while to wrap presents. Sherlock is able to finish in the smallest room, and John goes out to the carriage house for a while. 

John doesn’t ask him why he’s been in the small room, and Sherlock doesn’t ask why John’s been out in the carriage house.

They put their gifts under the tree, a small pile for each of them, along with a couple of things from Mrs Hudson that she’d sent along with Sherlock. There’s a card from Mycroft that John puts under the tree, and a gift for both of them from Lestrade as well.

“How did you get all these things out here without me noticing?” John asks.

“You see but you do not observe,” Sherlock teases, smirking.

“Oh fuck off,” John replies. 

Sherlock has to kiss the smile off his face.

\----

Christmas morning dawns bright and crisp, and ever so cold. They’re bedded down warm, snugged under most of the blankets in the cottage, a faint hint of smoke in the air from the banked fire. Sherlock gets up just long enough to build it back up before hopping back into bed with John.

He rubs his cold feet against John’s calves, and John covers him with his own body to warm him up again. At least, that’s what he murmurs in Sherlock’s ear, just before he kisses him.

After, Sherlock decides that Christmas morning mental and physical sex is the best sex. From the way he’s feeling, smug and content, John finds agrees, and Sherlock can’t even manage to find it in himself to tease John for it. He is, after all, one of the main beneficiaries of John’s smugness about his bedroom prowess.

Eventually, they get up. While John’s in the shower, Sherlock goes down to the kitchen and heats up the oven. When that’s finished, he takes the breakfast dish they’d put together the night before, an elaborate concoction of bread and eggs and cheese and sausages, and puts it in to cook. Then he takes his turn in the shower.

By the time they’re both clean and dry and bundled up in dressing gowns, Sherlock is dying of curiosity, and John is highly amused with him. Sherlock wants John to open all of his gifts first, but John insists that they take turns. 

Sherlock relents, eventually, but he makes sure John opens one first.

When John sees the watch that Sherlock had bought him, he laughs. Not precisely the reaction that Sherlock had been hoping for, but John just keeps chuckling as he picks through the pile of gifts and hands Sherlock a box shaped _exactly the same as the one he’d just opened_. Sherlock starts laughing before he’s even taken off the paper.

They’d bought each other watches. Practically identical watches.

Setting those aside, they keep going. Sherlock had bought John some of the ridiculous murder mysteries that he enjoys reading, and some new films; the Bourne series and some of the Bond movies he doesn’t have yet, as well as the most recent series of Doctor Who and the Anniversary special. He’d also got John a lovely new jumper; it’s made of cashmere, a deep chocolatey brown color with hints of blue in it picked out solely because Sherlock is pretty sure it will bring out John’s eyes. (It does.) The last gift from under the tree that John opens is a set of artisanal jams that Sherlock had found in the village. They’re all locally made, from local fruits, and they all sound delicious. Sherlock is looking forward to benefitting from that gift.

John hadn’t stinted on him either. He’d bought Sherlock a book on serial killers that he has never even heard of, let alone read. Sherlock also received a lovely leather-bound notebook and a nice pen; he’s not entirely sure their purpose but they are still quite nice. John has also bought him a book on gardening. Sherlock flips through it, slightly confused, and sees that it’s geared toward gardening for bees. Sherlock puts the dressing gown on as soon as he’s unwrapped it. It’s a lovely sage green that he’s pretty sure reminded John of his eyes; it will certainly make them look more silvery green when he wears it. He doesn’t miss the way John’s pupils dilate when he puts it on. There are some subtlely more colorful socks than the ones he usually wears; John’s laugh confirms that the gift is partially a tease, meant to mess with his index. 

There is a set of local honeys, made from different plants. Sherlock can’t wait to try them all (at least one of which spread across John instead of toast).

Once they’ve finished opening their presents from each other, Sherlock goes to check on breakfast--it still has a bit to cook before being finished, so he takes John by the hand and leads him upstairs. 

“I thought you could use a space of your own here, John,” he says as he opens the door to the small third bedroom, the one that had previously been used as storage.

It’s all set up as an office for John, a place for him to write. There’s a desk under the window, and a nice comfortable chair, and the antique typewriter that Sherlock had found for John on it. There’s a comfortable armchair in the corner, with a table and lamp next to it, and an area rug on the floor. It’s homey and warm, everything a nice office should be, conducive to productivity.

For a few minutes, John is speechless. Finally, he says, very soft, “Wow.”

Inexplicably nervous, Sherlock fidgets next to him. “Is that a good wow?”

John turns to him, and the light in his eyes is more than enough confirmation. The heated kiss that John gives him also helps ease Sherlock’s worry.

“This is amazing,” John says. “Thank you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shrugs, suddenly awkward, overwhelmed with the way John feels, with how much he knows he’s going to enjoy this office for years and years to come.

“Your turn,” John says. He takes Sherlock by the hand and leads him back downstairs. They stop by the front door and put on parkas and scarves and galoshes, and then John leads the way through the cottage and out the kitchen door, down to the bottom of the garden where there’s a new beehive sat, covered in a light dusting of snow.

Suddenly the book on bees, the notebook and pen, and the gardening book make a lot more sense.

It’s a long time before Sherlock is able to speak. Even then he’s not sure what to actually say, how to actually express how wonderful a present this is. 

“I thought perhaps we could spend some time down here this summer. Get started on the garden, at least.”

Sherlock still doesn’t know what to say, so he just nods. John smiles at him; Sherlock can feel that he doesn’t actually need to say anything. This time, words aren’t necessary. 

“Come on, let’s go back inside; there’s still a few things left to open.” John takes his hand again, and Sherlock follows him back into the house.

There are indeed still a few things left to be opened. Mrs Hudson had sent along gifts for each of them; a sweater for John, and a lovely new scarf for Sherlock that she’d knitted herself. Then there’s Mycroft’s gift. It’s a simple envelope. John opens it, because Sherlock waves it off, scoffing at any gift from his brother.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock had wandered off to the kitchen to check on breakfast again; he’s just pulled it out of the oven when John comes into the room.

 

“Yes, John?”

John is holding the card from Mycroft. He opens his mouth to speak, and nothing comes out. Sherlock blinks at him. John’s brain seems to have gone off-line; he’s so overwhelmed at the moment that he isn’t feeling anything. He’s blank.

Sherlock sets the pan down on the hob and grabs the card. Something about his action must shock John out of his stupor, because that’s when he speaks.

“Mycroft got us a honeymoon.”

Sherlock skims through the note in the card; first-class train tickets and two weeks at his villa in southern France.

_The bastard._ Sherlock snorts. _Villa. It’s practically a chateau._

“Don’t even think it, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock glares at John. “Think what?”

“That we won’t be taking this gift, that you’ll be throwing it back in Mycroft’s face. You will be gracious and you will say thank you and you will take me to the south of France and we will have a fantastic fucking time, do you hear me?”

Sherlock is almost chagrined. He’d only partly wanted to turn down his brother’s gift. Mostly, he’s just pissed that he hadn’t thought of it himself--although it seems he did ok, the way John feels about his new office and their future in this house.

But he nods at John anyway, and turns his attention back to the breakfast. “I won’t do anything, John. Just let me know when you want to go, and we’ll go. I expect a honeymoon would be nice.”

John gives him a suspicious look; he can feel it against his back. But he lets it go, for now anyway. Sherlock can sense that this is a discussion that isn’t over.

“Is that almost ready, Sherlock? I’m more than a bit peckish. All that opening presents works up an appetite.”

Sherlock turns with a smile and leans over to kiss John. “I’m sure that’s what it was. Get out the plates and put on the kettle?”

John does as asked, and they’re soon sat in the lounge in front of a fire, eating and drinking their morning tea contentedly. They settle in against each other and eat together mostly in silence. John asks how long Sherlock is planning on staying in Sussex, since this was his idea, Sherlock shrugs and asks when John wants to go home. They decide to wait a few days and see how they feel. 

After second helpings for both of them, they settle again with more cups of tea, leaning against each other, one of John’s legs draped over Sherlock’s. There’s a crackling fire in front of them, a decorated tree and cottage, and each other. There’s nowhere to be, and no one to please but each other, and that’s a rather wonderful way to spend a holiday. Sherlock intends to take full advantage of it, and John feels the same way.


End file.
